


your hand in my hand, so still and discreet

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Allusions to WWI, Ficlet, Folklore, M/M, Magic, Marsh Madness, Passage of the Marshes, Pre-Slash, Worldbuilding, folk magic, general creepiness and despair, no plot just vibes, the pure human drive to hold onto a hand through the darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:29:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29720724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: Gollum called this land the Dead Marshes, but Sam thinks that far too kind a name for such an accursed land.  Each step into mired, stagnant water means the sensation of slime, of dead reeds and rushes coiling around his ankles.  His palms go clammy, hands tensing and relaxing by his side in an attempt to stay calm.  Frodo trudges along behind him, for Sam hears the shush of water and mud.  Head tipping back, he stares up at the matte night sky.  Darkness here is different than in the Shire or the fair lands of Elvendom.  Oppressive, with neither stars nor moon twinkling.  Overhead, there is only smoke.  Below, there is only decay.Yes, there is nothing living here.  There is only death.  Death and dying things.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	your hand in my hand, so still and discreet

**Author's Note:**

> Tolkien beating me with a broom: SHUT UP ABOUT THE ALLEGORY! SHUT UP ABOUT THE ALLEGORY!!  
> me: brandishing 5 different books on wwi, hissing
> 
> dedicated to woolsheepy for Marsh Madness!! title from hozier's in a week
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own lotr, all rights belong to respective owners

One spring, many seasons ago, a terrible flood washed over the southern lands of the Shire, near Woodhall. The winter had been a hard one, heavy with snows and bone-chilling winds that swept down upon the Four Farthings from the north. Many of the old-timers said it was the harshest winter they had seen in decades by Shire Reckoning. But the spring— _oh, that spring_ —rolled in magnificently and gently like a burst soap bubble. Grey clouds shredded, dissolved into merry blues beneath the lemon yellow sunshine. Trees bloomed into waves of flowers into tender, verdant leaves. And hobbits emerged from their holes to greet one another with celebrations and preparations for the year’s planting season to begin. However, with that warm, sweet air, came the inevitable snowmelt that drained into the Brandywine. The river swelled far, vastly, more than usual, which hobbits relied on to fertilize the fields as it brought rich soil and nutrients with it. But the waters did not recede, instead they grew angry. They seeped inside smials, tainted walls and floors with thick, black mold. Several were drowned in the raging current. 

The favourite tale told to fauntlings, especially nearing All Hallow’s Night, was that beneath the murky, lapping waves, faces could be seen of the drowned. That beneath the gurgle and babbling, voices calling for help could be heard. As a lad, Sam listened in rapt attention, equal parts frightened and morbidly curious. As he grew older, though, he noticed how Frodo politely excused himself whenever the story was brought up despite always being willing to share a story or two. But it wasn’t until when the two of them walked along the edge of the Water at the start of their journey did Frodo confess what happened to his parents so long (not so very long) ago. 

Sam, heart full of sorrow, wept by the water’s edge that night after Frodo had fallen asleep. His Gammer always said that he carried the weight of everyone else’s emotions too much: both a gift and burden; Sam knew that as well, but he also knew that he never felt anyone else’s emotions quite as much as he felt Frodo’s. Somewhere along the way, Frodo had given Sam his heart, traded it in for a little, gold Ring. In his work-roughened palms, the heart fluttered and sighed like a trembling baby bird. Never has it felt more like a burden than now.

Gollum called this land the Dead Marshes, but Sam thinks that far too kind a name for such an accursed land. Each step into mired, stagnant water means the sensation of slime, of dead reeds and rushes coiling around his ankles. His palms go clammy, hands tensing and relaxing by his side in an attempt to stay calm. Frodo trudges along behind him, for Sam hears the shush of water and mud. Head tipping back, he stares up at the matte night sky. Darkness here is different than in the Shire or the fair lands of Elvendom. Oppressive, with neither stars nor moon twinkling. Overhead, there is only smoke. Below, there is only decay. 

Yes, there is nothing living here. There is only death. Death and dying things.

_Don’t follow the lights._

“If you ever get lost, Sam-child, follow the lights. Look for a candle in the window, and there’s a safe place to go. They’ll help get you home,” his Gammer had said when he was a lad. She had said it to each of his brothers and sisters, just as her ma’ had told her before. Not that Sam had been a particularly adventurous child, for such things were better suited to the Tooks, but Sam kept the knowledge close all his life. He helped his Gammer light their own candle each night, smiled on his late night walks home from the Dragon at all the homes with candles burning low. Once even a small child had knocked on their door in tears, separated from her mothers at the Sunday market, and the whole Gamgee family embarked out to runite child and parents. His Gaffer grumbled out, “That’s why we always keep a candle burning, see. Make sure everyone gets home safe.”

“Make sure you _don’t_ follow the giddy flame,” his Gammer continued. “The will-’o-the-wisps.”

“ _Pwca_ ,” his Gaffer added.

“The fae want nothing good for you. They’ll lead you astray, snatch you away from us and take you to their hidden world, and we’ll never see you again. You keep your eye on the candles. They soot, and the wax melts. They feel warm. Understand me, Sam?” 

_Don’t follow the lights_.

On their second day (second? what is time to a land made of death?) in the Marshes, Sam ushers Frodo ahead to keep a greater eye on him, make sure he doesn’t lag behind. Weariness clutters his eyes. Rubbing at them, Sam blinks through the speckles of colour, and when his sight returns, his heart stops. Ahead, no more than a stone’s throw away from where Gollum slinks and sways, flickers a hazy light that throws no soot. It does not sutter, does not blip like wick and wax. 

Clutching his chest, Sam whispers, “ _Pwca_.”

Frodo looks sharply over his shoulder, “What?” He halts and waits for Sam to catch up, catching Sam’s sleeve to make him pause as well. “What did you say?”

“Can’t you see it?” Sam asks, a chill creeping up his spine like frost on a window. “There’s a will-’o-the wisp just there ahead.”

Frodo’s eyes widen, and Sam— Sam sees the flicker of the lights in his pretty blue eyes. All of a sudden, he feels sick to his stomach but without the relief of actually throwing up, since there’s nothing in his belly in the first place.

“Ain’t nothing but trouble comes from the tylwyth teg,” Sam says, shaky, “‘tis a poor omen, sir. It’s gonna lead us away or trick us. It’ll try to separate us.” 

Frodo takes his hand, holding it close to his chest. 

“Not the tylwyth,” hisses Gollum. “Only the dead. Only them.” Then he laughs a hideous laugh, tight with fright. “All they wants is to feel warm. They wants to be buried, but we can’t touch them. Tried long ago, they did, Men and Elves.” 

A wave of dread washes over Sam. Every way he turns his head, the wisps flash from the corner of his eye. There are more now, he’s sure. Dotting the land with their eerie glow, illuminating the faces beneath the waters. Revealing their skulls of half-rotted flesh, of vines and grass reclaiming their space by crawling in between teeth and ribs, of flashes of who they were in life. Swaying, Frodo steadies him. 

Frodo, bless him, says, “We should stop here. Look, Sméagol, the sun’s about to rise.” 

They settle on a rock raised slightly above the pools and streams. Gollum runs off in search of worms or fish, which Sam knows can’t be found. Collapsing back on his elbows, Frodo sits and closes his eyes. Still panicked, Sam longs for any sort of warmth. For a comforting touch. For Frodo to hold his hand once more. It makes him bold.

Patting his thigh, Sam says, “There now sir, rest your head here.”

Frodo smiles. He wiggles closer to Sam, cups his jaw, and says, “You’re far too kind to me.” 

Sam thinks _no, don’t say that, I can’t bear it._ _I’m a coward and a fool who can’t tell where the candles are_. He says, “It’s only what you deserve.”

A crease forms between Frodo’s brows, but thankfully he says nothing and lays down, head pillowed on Sam’s thigh. Sam counts Frodo’s breath and strokes his sweat-damp curls looking out over the land. There is no horizon line, only grey and grey and grey. The trunks of trees long since passed away jut up from the earth like cracked, jagged teeth. Logs spilled over blackened with mold, fungus that grows up like fingers reaching for the light. Carved into the land are several grooved lines, in a series of rows, deep enough for a Man or Elf to stand and not have their head poke up. Gollum navigated around these ravines when they walked, but Sam knew they were filled with the same dank water as the rest of the area. In between the rows, the ground is pockmarked, where more water pools up, unable to go anywhere. In the weak, watery sun, Sam sees the faces of the dead, the unnatural flame of the wisps. 

But there are more than just the faces now—now he sees their bodies as well, their limbs torn from shoulders hanging on by a ligament. He sees arrows lodged in bloated, swollen bellys. He sees hands held in hands, faces turned towards one another even in this undeath. His stomach heaves once more.

_"Take me back_ ,” Sam begins to sing, quiet so as not to wake Frodo, “ _take me back to me dear old Shire. Put me on that road for Hobbit town. Take me over there, drop me anywhere. To the rollin’ fields, to the grass, the trees that raised me._ ”

When he ends, his voice trails off, unable to finish the rest of the tune. After a moment, he says out loud to himself, “There are no ghosts here,” but he can’t bring himself to believe the words. The air stills, stale stale stale. No breath, no warmth. Just the loneliness and the dead. 

There are only ghosts here.

Then Frodo wuffles in his sleep drawing Sam’s attention back. Leaning back on one hand, a sharp pain lances through his arm. He grabs the offending object and studies it. Small and moss covered, the rock has a curious hole in the center that runs from one side to the other so light can be seen through it. 

“An adder stone,” he marvels before pocketing the treasure. While it does not lessen the weight of the Eye that always bears down upon them, it does scatter the wisps and makes the faces in the water appear more at rest. Perhaps if he can no longer tell the difference between the lights, he will have to look to more tangible, unbreakable things like rock. Like Frodo’s weight on his knee.

“There are no ghosts here,” he repeats. Squeezing the adder stone, he banishes the malevolent spirits, wishes peace on these souls that cannot find their way home. There are no ghosts here. There is only Sam and Frodo; Gollum and the Eye. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sources:  
> Everett, Susanne. World War I: An Illustrated History. NYC: Rand McNally & Co., 1980.  
> for anyone who's interested, the song sam sings is based off the wwi song "dear old blighty."


End file.
